The Departure
by FangLoverLX
Summary: For a living, Damon Salvatore wrote about towns being plagued by vampires and the supernatural. Until he goes on a little trip to a small Virginia town called Mystic Falls where everything spirals out of control and reality. There's a dark force in the air and it's out to kill him and everyone he loves. Damon/Elena. AU/AH. Based loosely on the game "Alan Wake".
1. Nightmare

**Chapter 1 — Nightmare**

* * *

His name is Damon Salvatore.

He's a writer.

For several weeks now, Damon has been having a particularly unsettling recurring nightmare. He's always had a vivid imagination, but this individual dream unnerved him. It was dark, weird and at times bloody, even by his standards. He sped out of a cold, damp tunnel, his body gripped by a sense of cold determination to reach his destination—a light house—he just had to get there. He knew there was something waiting for him there. That was when a figure suddenly appeared.

Damon didn't see the hitchhiker until it was too late. It was night and he was tired, driving down the coastal road toward the lighthouse, driving too fast, as usual. The hitchhiker seemed to appear right out of the darkness, standing there in the middle of the road, just staring into his oncoming headlights. He didn't even have time to hit the brakes, reacting only after he heard the *thump* of metal against flesh.

Shaking, his head pounding profusely, he got out of the car to check on the hitchhiker. The front end of his precious Camaro was splattered with blood, the hood dented and crumpled. Steam rose from the crushed radiator. Damon bent over the body of the hitchhiker, the two of them caught in the headlights now as though they were onstage.

Looking back down at the hitchhiker his face was barely recognizable, from the black and blue bruises to the broken blood vessels swelling underneath the skin. The raven-haired man didn't even bother checking for a pulse, it was clear that the man was dead. He put his hand on the hitchhiker's bloody clothes, wanting to apologize, to explain, to ask the man why he had just stood there unmoving while his car hurtled at him. It wasn't the hitchhiker who was going to have to explain his actions, though.

"There were no skid marks on the road, Mr. Salvatore," the police would say. "Why didn't you slam on the brakes? Didn't you see him?"

"You're a writer; were you distracted, maybe thinking about your next book? Just for the record, exactly how fast were you going, Mr. Salvatore? Had you been drinking before the accident? Taken any pills? You look tired."

A raven cried out from a nearby tree, and Damon turned, seeing only its eyes shining in the darkness. When he looked back the hitchhiker was gone. He was _literally_ gone. Damon had to actually put his two hands onto the spot where the hitchhiker had been lying, feeling around, as if he might find a hole, a deflated blow-up drifter, some sort of insurance scam fake out—_something!_

There was nothing and nobody there.

Just the pavement, cool in the night air.

Damon stood up, knees shaking. He looked around, and then started walking towards the lighthouse in the near distance, trying to stay upright, to stay steady. The man had been there. He hit him. _Killed _him. So where was the body? He turned back. The Camaro car was still there, water leaking onto the pavement, the hazard lights flashing against the night. Up ahead, a streetlight lit up a wooden, pedestrian walkway that wound its way to the lighthouse. He still wasn't sure about what he was going to tell the police when he reported the accident.

As the 27-year-old passed under the street light, about to descend a flight of stairs, there was a faint noise coming from where he had left the car, and turned to look. Immediately he froze, rooted in fear by what he saw by the vehicle—the hitchhiker had returned, and he was very much alive.

In the time it took him to blink, the man was suddenly right in front of him, sending Damon reeling back in terror and shock. With the hitchhiker only a few feet away from him, he saw that there was something very wrong about him. He was wrapped in shadows, which seemed to cover his entire body, obscuring his face to the point where he was unrecognizable. Even more chilling, the writer noticed that he held a weathered wood axe in his hands.

The hitchhiker suddenly spoke, the maliciousness in his voice almost unsurprising considering his appearance. Shadows billowed around him as a light breeze swept around them.

_"You don't even recognize me, do you, Damon?"_ He asked. Damon could sense the maddening hate-filled grin on his face as he spoke. _"You think you're _**God**_?"_

All sense of delight in the hitchhiker's voice disappeared as he lifted the axe, continuing to rant as he swung it back and forth, tearing great chunks from the walkway's wooden handrails as he did so. Damon backed away in horror as the hitchhiker slowly advanced towards him, still swinging his axe wildly. _"You think you can just make up stuff? Play with people's lives and kill them when you think it adds to the drama? You're in _**this**_ story now, and I'LL MAKE YOU _**SUFFER**_!"_

Those last few words were delivered in an inhuman roar. The axe's blade narrowly missed him as he stepped backwards, stopped from moving any further in that direction by the guardrail as the walkway turned into a collapsed set of stairs. The ax was thrown into the nearby street light, cutting its power and sending a shower of sparks down from the broken light. Damon ducked away from them as he rushed along the walkway, leaping across some broken stairs to the lower walkway a few feet below in an attempt to escape his attacker.

Panting for breath, the terrified writer realized that the hitchhiker's attacks, physical and verbal, had stopped, and he turned to look. His would-be murderer stood at the top of the stairs, watching him with invisible eyes.

_"You're a joke Salvatore,"_ he spat at him. _"There wouldn't be a single readable sentence in one of your books if it wasn't for your editor. You'll never publish another one of your shitty stories, 'cause I'm _**going to kill you**_!"_

Making sure that the hitchhiker—or whatever he now was—remained at the top of the stairs, Damon hurried down the walkway, now even more determined to reach the lighthouse. Behind him, his attacker called after him, the drifter's voice now constantly shifting between that of a human being and something much deeper and darker.

_"It's not like your stories _**are any good**_—not like they have any artistic merit! You're a lousy writer. Cheap thrills and pretentious shit! That's all you're good for! Just look _**at me!**_ Look at _**your work!**_"_

Wanting to do anything but, he continued along the walkway as fast as he could, the wind now was picking up considerably. A sawhorse had been put across the path further down, but he would not be stopped. Damon climbed over it and into a small clearing doubling as a viewpoint, overlooking the lighthouse. The writer paused a moment to catch his breath—when a horribly familiar voice yelled out from right behind him: **"YOU MISSED YOUR DEADLINE!"**

The hitchhiker appeared out of thin air, just like how it did by the road. But Damon didn't have time to think as he threw himself to the ground just in time to hear something whistle by his head. Rolling over quickly, he realized that the shadowy monster had tried to decapitate him. Said monster raised the ax above his head and took a swing at Damon's head. Instinctively, the writer sidestepped around the hitchhiker. The ax embedding itself in the ground where he once stood, the blade wedged deep within the earth. Damon took the opportunity to kick the monster hard in the face causing the monstrous drifter to reel back. His bloody hands covering his face as he howled in faux pain: _"That didn't hurt."_

Desperately looking for an escape, the raven-haired 27-year-old spotted a gate across the clearing. Running for his life, Damon crossed the clearing as fast as possible. Silently thanking his doctor for getting him on that diet and muscle training program. He realized the hitchhiker was a character from a story he had been working on.

He sensed his presence and turned to find him standing on the side of the walkway he had just come from.

_"How does it feel to die by the hand **of your own creation**?"_ he called out menacingly. Without warning, he suddenly and instantaneously disappeared again, consumed by a tornado seemingly composed of pure darkness in his place.

The wind whipped up violently as the tornado sucked up parts of the walkway he had used. Eager to avoid this new form of death, Damon turned and fled for his life down a hill. As he did so he felt the tornado in hot pursuit, the noise drawing closer even as he fled from it. At the same time it seemed to emit an awful sound, somewhere between a scream and a wail of utter agony.

Overhanging lights shattered as he rushed down the dirt path, unquestionably an effect of the shrieking shadow storm. The ground shook as he reached a long rope bridge crossing over another part of the gorge. He was about to set off across it when he suddenly spotted someone waiting at the other side, undoubtedly another shadow person. Even as Damon thought this he realized that he was wrong, from his far-off position he saw that the man was not engulfed in shadows. As if on cue, the stranger spotted him and called out, "This way! This way!"

Sprinting across the bridge even as it swung side-by-side due to the strong winds, miraculously, he managed to stumble his way across to the other side as the bridge seemingly collapsed.

Remembering the man that had called him over Damon practically hobbled his way to where the man was. As he got closer, he noticed that the man was in his late 40s, with thinning, dark brown hair and matching brown eyes. He wore a red and yellow football jacket, faded out jeans and work boots. He also noticed the revolver in his hand.

"Damon, it's me, Kol, remember?" The man said shakily, the fear in his voice unmistakable. Even with the grave situation that they were in, for the life of him, Damon had no idea who this man was. Nor did he know as to what kind of name was "Kol" and who in their right mind would name their child that.

Nevertheless Kol ushered him to head towards a nearby cabin, while he stayed a few yards behind making sure that no more monsters were out there. Once inside the door slammed shut, but Kol wasn't with inside. Both of them frantically wrestled with the door to try and open it, but it inexplicably would not move. Moments later though, Damon was diverted from the struggle as the winds and tornado died simultaneously.

Moving to a nearby window, he looked out to see that the tornado had returned to the form of the hitchhiker, still wielding his axe and now standing by the former bridge, from where he quickly headed towards Kol.

Kol must have noticed him too, as Damon heard him utter a terrified "Oh no!" from the other side of the door. Sure enough, his savior descended the cabin's porch steps and fired at the advancing evil, calling out for it to stop with no success. Amazingly, the revolver's bullets did nothing to damage the hitchhiker as it continued advancing unhindered even as he managed to shoot the bloodstained weapon out of the monster's hands. In sheer desperation, Kol unloaded the rest of the pistol's ammo into his enemy, crying out "Die, dammit, die!" before suddenly running out of bullets as the hitchhiker lunged after Kol, ripping his throat apart.

"No! No! Aaahhh!" cried Kol in sheer terror—before his cries were suddenly silenced, his body falling limp. Damon watched in horror as the hitchhiker removed himself from Kol's neck, allowing the latter's body to fall to the ground. No sooner had he done this that the attacker suddenly looked up, straight at Damon, causing said man to almost literally jump in fear.

Mouth and jaw covered in blood, the crimson liquid sloppily dripping down his chin onto his already stained shirt. The light on the porch illuminating Damon's now would be killer's mouth as he opened his deadly maw and roared. A pair of fangs gleaming in the dark.

He was trapped.

There was no way out.

The demonic drifter slammed his body against the fragile door, the force sending Damon flying onto his back with the door lying on top of him. In a high speed blur the hitchhiker stood above him, the weight of his foot pressing the door into his chest with another guttural roar that was between a scream and an agonizing wail.

At the same time Damon heard the chilling voice of a woman, no more than a whisper but somehow equally as terrifying as his own horrifying fate, uttering, "_he's here_." As the thing standing above him launched itself at him, Damon opened his mouth to scream in sheer terror, but before he could so much as draw in breath, another soothing voice whispered in his ear, right beside him.

"Wake up. Damon."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES ON CHAPTER ONE:**

Hey everyone, hoped you all enjoyed this chapter It is the first of many because a friend of mine challenged me to go on a "Writing Binge" and write out a new story (fanfic or original) and spend the rest of the month writing until I reached the end. What I would get out of this challenge if I won? The book _"Inheritance"_ by _Christopher Paolini_ which is the fourth and final book of the _Inheritance Cycle_ fantasy series, of which I am a big fan.

And the practice of finishing things under a certain deadline, that way when I become and actual writer, it'd be a bit easier.

Also my lovely and annoying friend who I will call "Rex" because he doesn't want me using his real name, (he's a bit of a nut) said specifically that if I were to do a fanfic it would have to be based on the game _"Alan Wake"_ developed by _Remedy Entertainment_. Me and him love the game and are big fans of it, plus I've been wanting to write something like this in TVD universe, so I gave it a shot.


	2. Welcome to Mystic Falls

**Chapter 2 — Welcome to Mystic Falls**

* * *

"Damon?"

With a gasp Damon awoke, panting heavily with a hand to his throat. He could practically feel the monstrous hitchhiker's fangs sinking into his neck, tearing it apart. But all moments of fear subside when he looks over into the driver's seat to see his wife Elena, smiling at him.

"Shhhh, baby, just another nightmare," she told him, in that wonderfully soothing voice he had come to love so much. "Everything's fine. You dozed off."

Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, Damon was in no mood to look at the positives. The nightmare had left him feeling scared and confused—maybe even a little powerless. "Right," he sighed in reply. "Anything more than 'dozed off' would be news for everyone."

Elena was unfazed, and smiled back at him. "Cheer up, handsome," she laughed, nodding her head slightly to gesture through the car's windscreen. "We're here!"

As Elena exited the car, Damon took a moment to allow reality to properly reassert itself. He was sitting in his Camaro. He was on a small ferry, along with a few other vehicles and their owners. And, as Elena had pointed out, they had arrived at their destination: the town of Mystic Falls.

The trip was entirely Elena's idea—only she could have found such a seemingly remote little community, but he wasn't complaining and this was her hometown after all.

Damon sighed as he stayed in the car and his head fell into his hands. For the past two years he had been taking out his frustration (never physically, God no) at his current state both on himself and on Elena, and their relationship had suffered as a result. Time had only ensured that the wounds stayed open, not healed them. He felt that this little holiday getaway was a brilliant way to get away from New York, to put the past behind them and start a new chapter.

"I didn't want you to miss this," said Elena, pointing.

It took an effort to raise his head, but he got out of the car and followed her direction, seeing an immense forest stretching out on each side of the water, the biggest trees that he had ever seen, so tall and thick he couldn't see the forest floor.

"Hundreds of years old, never been cut. Not much of that left anymore." said Elena.

"Forest primeval, I get it," said Damon. "Welcome to Sasquatch Country." He looked down at the dark-green water churning around the ferry. He buttoned up his black leather jacket. Even with the hoodie underneath, he was shivering. The sun seemed to seek Elena out, but he was always cold.

Damon Salvatore's face was long and angular, with a three-day stubble like a rock star on a bender. His eyes were a pale shade of blue, very alert, volatile even. He told Elena once that if he had a tattoo it would read:_ "Born Pissed Off"_. She told him he needn't bother. One look at him and people figured that out fast enough.

A fallen tree drifted up ahead, bobbing gently along on the currents. Its thick trunk and broad leaves made it seem out of place among all the tall timber, and Damon, ever curious, wondered how it ended up here, what had torn it out by the roots. There was some black thing on the tree, a closer look and it was a crow, sitting as still as the yellow-tinged leaves around it. And it was watching him.

It was the biggest crow he had ever seen, plump and sleek, with rainbows shining in its black feathers. He could see every detail of it clearly: the greedy dark claws, the sharp beak, the pair of glittering black eyes. The crow suddenly shrieked before flying away.

Elena turned as the crow flew away. "Wow, that's one gigantic crow."

"Yeah," Damon said softly.

"Honey, are you okay? You look so…pale."

"Just my imagination messing with me. As usual." He ran a hand through his dark hair. Elena worried about him, worried about his moods, and especially about his temper. He gave her reason to. In the distance he could make out the outlines of a small town nestled in the bay. Had to be Mystic Falls.

Elena took her camera from her purse. "Why don't you stand next to that old guy beside the pickup? I'll take a picture of you with the woods in the background."

"You know I hate having my picture taken," he whined.

"Suffering is good for the soul," she said playfully. "Don't you want to get to heaven?"

"Not unless you're there with me," teased Damon.

"Of course, but not so soon," she said. "Come on Damon, can you please take a picture? Just this once?"

She smiled at him and he loved it. Loved her, more so every day. Elena and Damon had been married for years now, and she worked as a professional photographer; the camera she was using didn't come cheap. As a result, she worked closely with him in his own career as a bestselling paranormal writer. It had been her shots that he had used for his pictures in _The V__ampire's Journal _novels, and her art skills that she used to design the books' artwork. Thinking about _The Vampire's Journal_ quickly brought on a wave of nostalgia for him.

It seemed like an eternity since he had finally killed off the cocky bad-boy vampire, ending a series which had brought him international fame and enough money to last a lifetime, but in reality it had only been two years. It had only been two years since the trouble started.

Shaking the memories out of his head before they could fully form, he walked over to where the old man stood. As he watched, a small plane flew in low over the bay and landed by Mystic Falls, taxiing towards a pier along the waterfront.

Spotting movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned to see that the old man had noticed me, so he extended a customary "hi" in greeting. On closer inspection, he could see that the guy was somewhere in his late sixties, and (unfortunately for him) balding. Regardless, he greeted him with what he felt was a genuinely heartfelt smile. Old people were better at 'heartfelt' than the rest of us.

"You picked a good time to come to Mystic Falls," confided the older man, a short, balding fellow, his watery brown eyes crinkling behind round glasses.

"Really?" Damon asked. Elena waved at him to move closer to the man.

"Yup, a very good time."

"Uh-huh."

The man pushed back his glasses with a forefinger. "I mean, lucky you."

Damon took a deep breath. The persistence of geezers was a universal fact as certain as gravity or the speed of light. "Okay, why am I lucky?"

The older man showed his dentures in triumph. "The Founder's Gala is just two weeks away."

"The Founder's Gala, huh," said Damon, having no idea what the man was talking about. "Did you hear that, honey? The Founder's Gala!"

"Forgive my bad manners, I'm Logan Fell." The man stuck out his hand.

"I'm Damon—"

"Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Salvatore," said Logan, pumping away with his damp, pillowy hand. "We read books around here, too." He smiled at his little joke. "When's that next novel of yours coming out? Seems like we've been waiting—"

"Working on it," snapped the already irritated writer.

"Of course, can't rush the creative process, can you?" pressed Logan. "I hope this isn't too presumptuous of me, but I'm the night host at the local radio station. Any chance I could get an interview? A best-selling author doesn't come through these parts very often, and—"

"I'm on vacation with my wife," Damon said abruptly. "Trying to keep a low profile."

"I understand completely," Logan winked. "Still, you change your mind, I'm an easy man to find."

Damon returned to Elena, happy that he was away from the old man.

"I got some good shots," said Elena, pushing her hair back. "Nice to see you making friends."

"Yeah, we swapped fruitcake recipes."

Elena lightly punched him in the arm. "Wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen. You might actually enjoy yourself."

Damon didn't respond. He stood shoulder to shoulder beside her at the railing, eyes half closed, enjoying the sensation of her wind-blown hair tickling his face.

He had lied to Logan Fell about his next book. He hadn't written a word in two years, and had no idea if he would ever write again, but standing beside Elena, Damon put aside all thoughts of the books he had written, and the books he might never write, put aside the frustration that tore at him night and day. There was just him and his wife. That was enough. For this one perfect moment, that was all he needed.

"Uh Damon," she said softly.

"What?" said Damon, not wanting to look, wanting to stay where he was, smelling her perfume and forgetting everything else.

"There's the creepiest guy watching us," she said uneasily.

Damon opened his eyes, the perfect moment gone now, popped like a soap bubble on a summer afternoon. He saw a grubby man in his forties staring at them from the far end of the ferry, an insolent grin on his face. The man wore camouflage pants and a hunting vest, a stained ball cap and scuffed work boots. A cigarette dangled from his lower lip.

He started walking slowly toward the man. "Do you have a problem?" The younger man challenged, raising his voice to be heard over the rumbling engines.

The man didn't react, just took a long, slow drag on his cigarette, and kept staring.

"Damon, don't," Elena pleaded. "Stay here. This is no way to start a vacation."

Agreeing that fighting was no way to start their vacation he allowed her to steer him back to their car, neither of them saying a word until they were both inside.

"You…you scare me sometimes," said Elena.

He watched her chocolate orbs look away, he was angry at himself for upsetting her. "I'm sorry."

"Men like that…they're not worth worrying about," said Elena. She squeezed his hand. "You just have to learn to back away."

"I can't do that," Damon shook his head. "The world will eat you alive if you let it."

"That's not true," she countered. "Most people are good."

The ever so cynical writer couldn't help but snort.

"Damon Salvatore, they most certainly are."

"What about the ones who aren't good?" he asked, looking past her as the town came clearly into view, a collection of bright storefronts and a few small houses scattered across the surrounding hills. People and cars waited at the ferry dock. He turned back to her. "What about the ones who want to hurt us?"

"Why would anyone want to hurt us?"

He reached over and kissed her. "Jealousy. Who wouldn't want what we have?"

Elena kissed him back, her lips warm and pouting. "Well, they can't have it."

Elena drove the car off the ferry and onto the dock, past the fishermen lining the railing and people waiting to board. There was a chill in the air now, clouds building up on the horizon. Locals in quilted jackets clomped down the sidewalk, eating ice cream cones, enjoying the sunshine. No seagulls, which was odd, since they usually hovered around the waterfront, looking for scraps and leftovers. No seagulls. Just crows watching from the roofs and power lines. Damon shivered.

"It's nice, isn't it?" said Elena. "Quaint. No one seems to be in a hurry."

"Wait until the Founder's Gala," he grinned, "the place will be throbbing with activity."

"Can't wait." Damon took noticed of his wife's sarcasm.

"Speaking of the Founder's Gala, you never did tell me about it" The raven-haired man said. "Bad memories?"

"Not really. Just when I was little my mother...before the accident...used to dress me up so I could go on the float just because I looked like one of the founders."

Seeing as how talking about her mother brought up memories that inevitably lead to the one about her and Elena's father dying in a car crash, Damon dropped the conversation and quickly changed it to something else. But she beat him too it.

"So what are we doing today?"

"Today, we're going to pick up the key to our cabin and officially start the vacation, and if you're good, very, very good, I'll even take you to the Founder's Gala and laugh at all the idiots in their froo-froo costumes. Hey, I'll even let you pet Bambi." Damon said, grinning slyly.

"You need to take a look around and see where you are, city boy," teased Elena. "Around here, they don't pet Bambi, they eat him."

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES FOR CHAPTER TWO:**

_I hope you all liked this quick update! __Nothing else to say here. _

**_Just Read & Review & tell others about this story if you like it. _**


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